


Good Omens Tumblr shortfics

by thewalrus_said



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bare Forearms, Christmas Presents, Crisis of Faith, Dresses, Having a shout at God
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said
Summary: Small ficlets I originally put on Tumblr.1. Aziraphale struggles with his faith.2. Crowley has a chat with God.3. Aziraphale uses Bare Forearm. It's super effective!4. Aziraphale uses Fashion Update. It's super effective!5. Christmas presents! Wait, we celebrate Christmas?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! These are just little things I wrote on my phone and posted directly to Tumblr, now collected here. There may be more, there may not be, who knows? Not me! I hope you like them!

It’s surprisingly difficult, watching Aziraphale struggle with his faith. Crowley, had someone asked him before the Apocalypse, would have said he’d expected it to be gratifying, if not amusing - the angel can work himself into a proper tizzy over which bowtie to wear, after all; what facial contortions might he go through while questioning God? But instead, it’s just sad, and not a bit frustrating. Crowley wants to shake him, to explain everything the way he sees it, but he knows the angel well enough by now to know that’s a one-way ticket to No Aziraphale Town, and he’s spent enough time there over the centuries. He intends to enjoy the angel while they have their respite. So instead he watches, and bites back a bit more of his teasing than he normally would, and waits. Aziraphale is praying more than he normally does; Crowley catches his eyes sliding shut during lulls in their conversations, mouth moving silently. Crowley doesn’t interrupt.

It takes months. Close to a year, of Aziraphale growing sad at random intervals, of wordless prayer, of frowning, concentrated expressions. But finally one day, after a satisfying dinner of Thai food consumed at Crowley’s magnificent dining room table, the angel turns to him and says, “Crowley, my dear, what do  _you_ think?”

There’s no need to ask what he means, and Crowley does him the courtesy of refraining. Instead, he fiddles with his napkin and says, “I think God’s lost the wheel, a bit.” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, a silent bid for Crowley to go on. He does. “I don’t think it much matters what the Almighty wants anymore. She’s lost control of the car. Gabriel and his lot are going without direction from above, and I don’t think that’s on purpose. Plan or no Plan, I think what will happen will happen, and there’s not anything She can directly do about it anymore.”

Aziraphale thinks for a long moment, and then nods. “Do you know, I think I agree with you? About the lack of direction, I mean. I can’t believe everything Gabriel and Michael did during the Antichrist Incident was on order from above.” He pauses. “I’m not sure even the Metatron has Her ear anymore, if we’re being honest.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale sighs. “I have to believe - I  _have_ to, you understand - that the Almighty is still good. Regardless of Her level of influence on the world, I have to believe she still wants, well,  _good_  for Her creations.”

“Okay,” Crowley says. “So believe that.”

Aziraphale looks down at the table. “You must think me an utter fool.”

Crowley leans forward, reaching his hand out. It falls short of actually touching Aziraphale, but the intent is there. “I don’t. I think you have faith.”

Aziraphale looks up at him. “You don’t equate the two?”

Crowley considers this, then shakes his head. “I don’t, no. Faith’s not a bad thing for an angel to have.”

A smile breaks out across the angel’s face. “Thank you, my dear. You’ve no idea what it means to hear that from you.”

Crowley drives Aziraphale back to his shop a few hours later, dropping him off with a wave. Back in his flat, he pours himself a few fingers of whiskey and heads for the main room.

“I hope he’s right,” he abruptly announces to the empty room. “That You’re still good, I mean. And how sad is that, that the best option is that you’re well-meaning but ineffective? Any self-respecting Almighty ought to aim a bit higher than that.” He takes a sip of his whiskey, and then another. “Ineffable or ineffective, which are You?” Another sip. “Just on my own, I don’t care, it all washes out to the same color in the end, but for his sake, I hope You’re alright.” Crowley drains the rest of his whiskey, shaking his head at the burn. “Anyway. Don’t let him down.” He turns on his heel and leaves the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley carefully, carefully eases his way on top of the car, taking pains to keep his feet pointed directly up. His soles must never come into contact with the Bentley’s hood. Once situated, he leans back, one arm tucked up under his head, and looks at the stars.

He’s out here for a chat, but it’s several long minutes before he can make himself speak. “Is this why?” he asks, finally. “Is this why I fell? Because You needed an angel and a demon on hand to avert the Apocalypse?

“Because let me tell You,” he goes on, voice mounting, “that is a piss-poor excuse for letting me FALL!”

A police car pulls up next to him and rolls its window down. “Everything alright, sir?” asks the officer inside. “Little drunk?”

“Sober as a bell,” Crowley says. “Just having a shout at God.”

“Been there,” says the officer. “Just try not to wake the neighbors, yeah?”

“They won’t hear anything. They never do.”

“Right-o.” The window rolls back up and the car drives off.

Crowley turns his head back up to the sky. “Where was I? Oh yes, piss-poor excuses. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t give a shit about Heaven. Don’t care for it now, didn’t care for it then. I don’t miss it. Much rather be on Earth. And say what You want about the downsides of demonhood, at least the work’s a lot more fun.”

On the other hand…

“Yes,” Crowley says. “On the other hand, Aziraphale.” The angel’s face swims into his mind. “Six thousand years,” Crowley murmurs, almost a whisper. “I’ve only had six thousand years of knowing him. Barely a blink, compared to how old we are. Six thousand years is nothing.” He rubs a hand over his face. “How much sooner could I have met him, if I hadn’t fallen? How much more time knowing each other could we have had?

“And those stupid little fits of conscience he would have,” he adds, pointing upwards. “Little guilty trips about being friends with a demon, those weren’t nothing. He’s hurt me,” Crowley snarls, shaking his finger, “and I blame Heaven for that.” He lets his hand drop. “At least those seem to be over now. He’s seen a bit more of Heaven’s true face. That’s something good that’s come out of this whole mess.”

He sighs. “But that’s beside the point. The point is, me falling was one thing. Wasn’t great, didn’t like it. But if You let me fall on purpose?” He pauses. “That might be unforgivable.

“Not that You give a shit,” he adds. “I don’t kid myself that You give a shit about whether one demon forgives You or not.” But still. “Still. I’d know, and that wouldn’t be nothing.”

He sits in silence on top of the Bentley until he can see the lights of the police car coming back around. “Good chat,” he says, and slithers back onto the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://thewalrus-said.tumblr.com/post/185918275392/wholesome-revelry-listen-it-is-all-fun-and) in response to a post by [wholesome-revelry](https://wholesome-revelry.tumblr.com).

In retrospect, it had been a stupid idea. Crowley can see that now. It’s entirely his fault, he takes full blame for his own blasted stupidity. It had been Aziraphale who convinced him to remodel his plant room, to “put a bit of color into it, so the green really pops,” but it had been Crowley who had followed that up by saying, “Come over and help me, then.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale had said. “I’d assumed you’d just miracle it up. Demonically, that is.”

Crowley had shaken his head. “If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right. By hand or not at all.”

Which had led, of course, to Aziraphale volunteering to do the fiddly detail work by the window, and dipping his shirt sleeve into the paint no less than three times.

“No, this won’t do,” he had said. “You’ll have to forgive the indecency,” and then he’d put the brush down and  _rolled his sleeves up_.

Just like that. Right there, in Crowley’s plant room. Like it was a normal thing to do.

So really, it was a little bit Aziraphale’s fault that Crowley couldn’t pay attention to the light switch plate he was painting. Mostly Crowley’s, but a little bit Aziraphale’s.

If Crowley sets his mind to it, he can remember the last time he saw Aziraphale’s forearm. Must have been Rome, mustn’t it, 41 AD, those blasted togas. But ever since then, the angel’s been buttoned up from nape to wrist, the way God intended.

There was no way God had intended the soft white hairs on his skin, the faint blue veins running underneath. Must have been an oversight. Crowley intends to take it up with whoever had issued Aziraphale’s body in the first place.

Assuming he could ever tear his eyes away from the offending limb. He carelessly sweeps the brush in his hand over his fingers and swears.

“Easy there,” Aziraphale says, looking up from his own work. A snap of his fingers and Crowley’s are clean again.

“Thanks,” says Crowley. Aziraphale beams at him and bends back to the window.

Crowley lasts precisely seven minutes and thirty-three seconds longer. “Sorry, can I just,” he stammers, when he breaks. Aziraphale looks up at him. Crowley puts his brush down, and plucks Aziraphale’s from the angel’s hand. Taking hold of that hand, Crowley pulls it towards him, a white expanse of forearm trailing behind.

The skin is warm under Crowley’s fingers, warmer than his own, for all hellfire runs in his own veins. There is, when Crowley really looks, a faint dusting of freckles on the upper side. Crowley rips his sunglasses off and dances a fingernail among them, brushes through the hair, turns his arm over. He doesn’t look up to see what Aziraphale’s face is doing. He  _can’t_ ; all his attention is on the soft, unmarked skin before him.

Crowley puts his nose to where the fold of Aziraphale’s shirtsleeve meets bare flesh and inhales. Aziraphale smells, literally, Heavenly - ethereality and old books and nutmeg. He’d done away with the cologne today, for which Crowley can only be grateful. Crowley begins to drag his nose upwards and, losing himself entirely, puts out his tongue to better smell the angel. He licks a trail from shirtsleeve to wrist.

He can’t avoid it any longer, and looks up. Aziraphale’s face is shocked, but when Crowley’s eyes lock onto his, the expression melts into a knowing smile. “Oh, my dear,” he said softly. “It seems I’ve stepped into your territory, and done a little temptation.”

“I should say so,” Crowley rasps.

Aziraphale’s smile widens. “Then, it seems only right that I should do a benediction as amends.” Crowley is still clutching Aziraphale’s hand up by his face; Aziraphale uses it to cup his cheek and draw him close.

The kiss burns. Aziraphale hadn’t been kidding about the benediction; his lips are aflame with holiness. Crowley presses closer.

It can only last a moment. Aziraphale’s eyes are closed when Crowley pulls away; he opens them with a sigh. “I think we’ve done quite enough work for one day,” he says. Crowley nods, dumb. “Then perhaps you’d like to buy me dinner. I believe it is the traditional thing, after all.”

Crowley opens his mouth a few times before he finds his voice. “Right. Dinner. Traditional. Yes, sounds good. Let’s go.” He tries to turn but Aziraphale’s hand is still on his face. The angel holds him in place for one final, soft smile before letting him go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [RobinLorin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin).

It’s been approximately two years since the Apocalypse, and approximately one year, eleven months, and 28 days since Crowley had taken Aziraphale’s face in his hand and ever-so-slowly leaned in for their first kiss in six thousand years. More to the point, it’s been approximately eighty years since Aziraphale’s last major wardrobe change, and he’s starting to feel the itch.

It’s a delicate thing, redoing one’s image, and these days it’s not only himself he has to take into account. He wouldn’t want Crowley to be ashamed of him on their dates, after all. So Aziraphale thinks, and peruses fashion catalogs from the last century, and finally picks up the phone and calls an intimate friend.

Madame Tracy - or just Tracy, these days - is more than happy to help, and she and Aziraphale spend a happy hour perusing her own wardrobe. She’s of a different build than Aziraphale, however, and there are only so many options that can be let out enough for his wider frame. So it’s into the city they go, starting with Harrod’s and then over to King’s Road. When the weekend is done, Aziraphale has a small mountain of shopping to be delivered to his bookshop, and Tracy has a few odds and ends for herself as well.

He does his own tailoring, having picked up the skill in the 18th century. It’s a job keeping his work from Crowley, who more or less lives at the shop these days, but he manages. Crowley takes redirection, both conversational and physical, wonderfully well. Aziraphale takes pains to kiss him extra thoroughly throughout the whole project, as amends.

Finally, about three months from the inception of the project, it’s time. Aziraphale contrives to be separate from Crowley during the day, so Crowley has to pick him up for their date. When Aziraphale hears the Bentley park outside and the front door of the shop open, he takes a deep, if unnecessary, breath and steps out from the back room.

Crowley’s reaction is… gratifying, to say the least. Aziraphale had expected a raised eyebrow and a tossed-off compliment in the vein of Crowley’s appreciation of the first dress he had ever worn, but evidently the sight of a dress on Aziraphale’s own body, rather than Tracy’s, is an entirely different animal. Crowley flushes red to the tips of his ears, and  _both_  eyebrows go up.

“I take it you approve?” Aziraphale asks, when it seems they might stand there for some time if he doesn’t make the first move. “I thought it time for a change and, well, you did rather appreciate the last one.”

“Oh, I approve,” Crowley manages, tearing his eyes away from Aziraphale’s hemline and putting them back on his face. “You look…” Words seem to fail him. “It suits you.”

“Yes, I rather think it does too,” Aziraphale agrees, pleased. He does a little twirl in place, just for the novelty of it. “Hadn’t we better be off? We’ll miss our reservation.” He knows as well as Crowley that the restaurant will hold their reservation as long as they need, but he  _is_  rather peckish, after all the suspense.

Crowley visibly shakes himself out of his trance. “Reservation. Right. Yes, let’s be off.” He offers his arm to Aziraphale, who takes it with a beam and leans over to press a light kiss against his cheek. “Let’s walk, instead of driving,” Crowley says. “There’s never parking there.”

There’s parking wherever Crowley needs there to be parking, but Aziraphale doesn’t call him on it. If Crowley wants to show him off a little bit, then Aziraphale sees no harm in indulging him. He does look rather spectacular, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale surprises Crowley with a Christmas present. Crowley, predictably, panics.

Aziraphale walked up to Crowley in the kitchen, hands discreetly behind his back, and kissed him on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

“Do we celebrate Christmas now?” Crowley asked, casting a meaningful look at the menorah in the windowsill. “It’s not even when the boy was born.”

“We do this year,” Aziraphale said primly. He pulled his hands from behind his back, revealing a neatly wrapped present. “For you.”

“Oh.” Crowley took the present. Aziraphale beamed at him, so Crowley ripped the wrapping paper to reveal a black scarf. He dropped the paper to the floor (Aziraphale tutted and miracled it away, presumably to a trash can) and ran a hand over the scarf. It was  _soft._  “Thank you. Did you knit this yourself?”

“I did,” Aziraphale said, looking smug. “Do you like it?”

In answer, Crowley looped the scarf around his neck. Somehow it felt even softer on the underside of his chin than it had on his hands. Aziraphale leaned in for a proper kiss this time. “I’ll be in the den,” he said when Crowley released him.

Once he was gone, Crowley started pacing about the kitchen. Were they doing gifts? They hadn’t discussed doing gifts, and here Aziraphale was, dropping a surprise gift on him. Was he supposed to get Aziraphale a gift too?

What would he even get the angel? A book? No, Aziraphale had plenty of those, and Crowley lacked the innate taste to know which would be a good choice anyway. Aziraphale had been getting really into skin care lately, maybe that? But would that be an insult, implying that Aziraphale’s skin needed special care? His cheeks were always soft when Crowley kissed them, he wouldn’t want to say otherwise.

Crowley threw up his hands. They hadn’t discussed it! He couldn’t be expected to present Aziraphale with a gift when they hadn’t discussed it beforehand. And it wasn’t even like the boy had been  _born_  on the 25th of December, anyway.

Without thinking, Crowley went to the fridge and pulled out the milk, then to the cupboard and pulled out a pan. He could just as easily miracle up some cocoa, but Aziraphale always preferred it made by hand, and Crowley could do it in his sleep by now.

Steaming cup in hand, he wandered out to the den. Aziraphale was curled up on their sofa, nose in a book, but he lit up when Crowley entered the room. He always did. Crowley passed him the cocoa and kissed him on the top of the head. “Merry Christmas, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled up at him, eyes crinkling, warmth emanating from every atom of his body. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley flopped down next to him and went snake. The scarf dropped to the cushion and he coiled his body around it. Satan, it was still soft against his scales. Aziraphale reached out and casually wrapped his arm around the bundle of snake and scarf, resting a hand on the far side. Crowley closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, I posted over 100k on AO3 this year. Wild, man.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me on [Tumblr](https://thewalrus-said.tumblr.com)!


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